That last summer
by neverhappy10
Summary: Remember me and smile, for it is better to forget than to remember me and cry. AU.
1. Chapter 1

Hellooo all, this is my first venture into the world of Brittana fanfiction. I just came up with this idea yesterday, at around 1am t be quite honest, and thought I might as well showcase my writing to the wonderful 'LiveHardDieHonest, for whom I'm beta-ing. Sorry for giving you so much crap about using interchangeable words, it's certainly not easy being on this end :P

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><p>"Remember me and smile, for it is better to forget than to remember me and cry." - Unknown.<p>

_They spent their summer mornings waking up early, pressing warm feet to cold, wet grass. They would shovel cereal down, shower because their mothers forced them to, and hurriedly pull on shorts and t-shirts. And then they would run._

_At eight years old, they didn't care about the world. It was summer and they were free. Each day was an adventure waiting to be discovered, and boredom was non-existent when they had each other to create fun with._

_The rich scent of damp earth would waft on the breeze as they'd throw down their bikes after racing, coming to dig up the backyard, where Santana's grandfather would plant his sunflowers and scold them gently as they rolled in the mud. They would argue over who got to do what, and solving it was as simple as rock-paper-scissors._

_They'd help with the watering and the weeding, all the while playing and laughing, and drinking from tall, sweating glasses of lemonade._

_"I dare you," she winked, knowing her best friend wouldn't do it, but Brittany swallowed the earthworm with a smug grin._

_And the sun would sparkle off the empty glasses on the veranda, as they got yanked in for baths._

_The water was always cool, and what was summer for if not for the beaches? Buckets and spades, flowered shorts, and sun-cream. When the salt mingled in the air, their excitement was unbearable._

_The glittering sand would stretch for miles, fringing the bright blue of the ocean, and the two of them would build their castles as high as they could reach, scratching doors and windows into their vast palaces of soft sand, cemented together with the salty sea-water. The flags at the top would mark their territories and they would begin to concoct the unbelievable stories for their castles to contain._

_Across the shore, Brittany's dad would yell, "Heads up!" and chuck them a frisbee, and the epic battle would begin. Up and down the beach, sand between chubby toes, hair flying, and water splashing, and the sun tanning their young skin for they did not listen properly when they were told to put on the sun-cream. Before home-time, they'd run in with the tide, and let it wash back over their feet, saying a farewell to the sea and the sky and the sand, until next time._

_When it wasn't the beach, it was afternoons at the pool. They'd race up and down the length of it a hundred times, yelling with delight, seeing who was faster, splashing each other, holding their breaths and diving. Brittany would call, "Marco!" and Santana would shout, "Polo!" swimming for her life. And they'd munch tuna sandwiches by the poolside, dipping their feet in, and licking chocolate ice-creams as they skipped home._

_It was summer, it was fun – not a care in the world. And they weren't going to waste a moment of their last week, which had all of a sudden arrived._

_There were the quieter evenings too – well, as quiet an evening as two 8 year olds could have – when they'd play on the monkey bars at the park. Santana always tried, but could never make it across, and Brittany was always there to help her up when she fell. They'd run up the slide at full speed then collapse in laughter as they slipped and slid back down. The swings were their favorite. They always felt like they were flying, higher than the clouds, as they pumped harder, cheering, and right at the top, they'd jump to see if they could land on their own two feet._

_That was the first time Brittany discovered she wasn't indestructible. Santana let the blonde lean on her as she helped her home. Her foot was wrapped, and the doctor told her to stay off her swollen, sprained ankle for the next week. It must have been the most depressing news she'd ever heard. She'd be so bored – her last week indoors with no Santana, at which point she received a sharp smack across her head and then a hug. Brittany didn't say it but her smile did, and when Santana rang her doorbell the next day, her arms piled with things, she was more than happy, sort of relieved._

_They made board games fun, and bet some of their toys too. Disney movie marathons were always supplied with plenty of popcorn and pop-tarts and anything with a 'pop' in it, and Santana would turn the Pierce's living room into a new adventure each day, like they had done with the outside world. They'd create jungles and cities, foreign lands and castles, oceans and mountains with their untamed imaginations, and the help of tables, toys, blankets and various other objects stolen from around the house. And each day, she returned without fail, to stay with Brittany, who almost forgot she was even hurt; she did not even realize the week flying by so quickly. Then suddenly, it was the last day of summer._

_She waited for her, but that morning Santana did not arrive. The clock ticked, and ticked. She played with her cat, which was getting fatter by the minute, built a city of lego, watched cartoons, played her favourite video game, but the minutes rolled by like hours. When it was lunch time, Brittany wasn't hungry, and he finally picked up the phone, but then put it down almost immediately. Santana had finally gotten tired of her, perhaps. Well, it was the last day – why would she want to spend it indoors?_

_Saddened, she pulled blankets over herself, and went to sleep, until her mother came to wake her. It was five o'clock. She'd been out for so long. When she finally limped downstairs, a tall glass of milk was sitting on the counter like always, but as the blonde girl rounded the door into the kitchen, she saw Santana sitting across the counter, sipping milk her own._

_"Hey," she smiled, the milk mustache stretching._

_Brittany didn't reply, but sat down to drink._

_"Sorry I didn't come this morning. Mum said I couldn't. I had stuff to do. But I was thinking, you're walking a little better – maybe we could go outside for a bit?"_

_She gave her mother a questioning look, and she nodded, "Yeah, go on. Just have Brit home before eight, okay?" she winked._

_Brittany frowned, "I can do that myself, Mum."_

_When the pair stepped outside, it was beautiful. The 8 year old blonde felt like she hadn't seen the world in years. They walked quietly towards the park, Santana chatting like she always did, but Brittany was still silent. She trotted along to the swings but Brittany didn't follow._

_"What is it, B?"_

_She limped up to an open space, plopped down, and lay back on the wet grass, her head tilted up towards the sky. Santana followed._

_"Let us lay in the sun and count every beautiful thing we see," she murmured quietly._

_Santana turned her head to look at her best friend's pondering expression, "Huh?"_

_"My Dad said that to me once." Brittany shrugged._

_"Blue sky," the other girl smiled._

_"Huh?"_

_"It's beautiful."_

_"Cotton-candy clouds."_

_"The chirping cicadas."_

_"The grass so green."_

_"Sunflowers."_

_"Butterflies."_

_"Summer."_

_"The last day… You didn't have to come if you didn't want to today. I know you wanted to play outside. It's alright," she whispered, turning to face Santana, who instantly_

_sat up, crossing her legs and turned to face Brittany, tone serious, "Brittany, I do want to. You're my best friend. I'm not lying. My mum didn't let me in the morning."_

_She brought her eyes from the sky to her, eyes sparkling with hope, and after a long pause: "Really?"_

_"Really." Santana nodded vigorously._

_The blonde sighed, and attempted to sit up, and when she couldn't, Santana chuckled and pulled her up, hurt leg stretched out, the other crossed._

_"Thanks San."_

_She shot her a toothy grin, her face lighting up, but it soon subsided._

_"Brit, I have to tell you something."_

_Brittany perked up to listen._

_"Uh. Well, the thing is… Remember I told you before summer how my dad was looking for new jobs? He found one."_

_Brittany grinned, raising Santana's hand for a high-five. "That's great!"_

_She looked down sadly and murmured, "But it's not. It's not... here. We're… we're leaving."_

_The hand abruptly dropped, like her face, "Leaving? Leaving where? You can't go!"_

_"We are. Next week. They've moved me to a new school too. A new city…" Her eyes were wet and round._

_"That – That's so soon…"_

_Her lower lip trembled. "I know."_

_And the tear she was trying to blink away slipped down her round, pink cheek. Brittany, in her awkward sitting position, inched forward, and put her arms around her best friend's quivering shoulders, and let her shirt soak up the girl's heavy tears. She rubbed her back in circles and whispered, "It will be okay in the morning," until she hiccupped to a weak stop._

_They stayed out until eight-thirty that night, looking at the stars and talking about nothing. She helped Brittany home afterward, and Brittany's mum told them off but called them to dinner. They ate the fish and chips, watched Lion King, and later that night, fell asleep, Brittany's mum calling Santana's to tell them she was sleeping over._

_While the blonde went to school the next morning, Santana went home to a place that was being dismantled piece by piece, packed away into brown cardboard boxes. During the endless mornings, boredom would creep up on her, as she was shepherded off to rooms where the movers were not working. Most of the time she spent discovering things that were long-forgotten or thought lost. Occasionally, she would sit on a box, and strike up a conversation with one of the movers until she was caught and told to go do something somewhere else._

_But Brittany would come everyday like clockwork (as Santana had), in the late afternoons after finishing her homework, to play, and the two of them would turn her boxed up house into tunnels and caves, a vast maze with endless obstacles, and the lone sofa that had not yet been packed away was their home base. Even in this state, they let their imaginations take them on a ride, and the evenings passed by too quickly. Brittany wouldn't leave until the sky was an inky black, until her father came to take his daughter home._

_Saturday morning rolled by and Santana watched as the moving truck revved and sputtered into life, taking away all her possessions. She wandered through her house, marveling at its emptiness, and feeling suddenly smaller in this large, space of nothing but floor tiles. The bigger furniture, like beds and the kitchen table, would be taken away tomorrow, when they finally handed over their keys to the landlord from whom they'd rented. These thoughts tumbled through her head, and her heart dropped a degree lower each time. She couldn't even pretend anymore that this wasn't real._

_Brittany did come over early though, and relieved her boredom. They spent the day outdoors, at the park and the pool, and playing kiddy basketball in her spacious backyard. Santana did not think about anything, but had fun, letting her skin soak up the sun, and the gentle breezes fan her dark hair. They laid on the grass and stared at the never-ending blue sky, and swung higher than ever on the swings, uncaring of anything, the world seemingly at their fingertips. And when the sun came to set, they went to dinner with their families, laughing at the stars as they emerged from the deepening folds of sky. They watched Tom and Jerry, slurping strawberry milkshakes and competing fiercely at Snake and Ladders. And finally it was time to go home._

_"I'll be there first thing tomorrow. I promise," Brittany said, her piercing blue eyes sure._

_She grinned wide and hugged her best friend tight, "Thanks Brittany."_

_The next morning she was woken up extra early to get ready. Shower, dress, breakfast. They'd be leaving at nine o' clock, and she had two hours to kill. But it was okay – Brittany would come._

_She couldn't get dirty so she couldn't play outside, and there was nothing to do inside. She read a fairy-tale, played with her stuffed hippo, climbed up the insides of doorframes, and skipped around the house. She blew bubbles with her pink gum, nibbled on biscuits, and slid down the banister of the staircase. And the clock chimed eight – yet still all the knocks on the door were not Brittany – neighbours, some of her other friends, her dad's colleagues – but no Brittany._

_Santana was worrying now. Only one more hour. She begged to go check at Brittany's house, but her parents said she couldn't leave. They were busy and they couldn't come after her. Finally, after brooding around the house, she plopped down outside on her doorstep, clutching her hippo. Her watch beeped eight-thirty._

_The birds were chirping and the bees buzzing around her garden. Her garden. Oh, it was beautiful – the flowers, the trees, the grass, the bugs – full of life. She would miss it. And her house. The one she'd grown up in since she was born – she'd miss it so much. The lilac walls of her bedroom, the little balcony that overlooked a busy street, the warmth of the kitchen, the squashy couches in the living room… everything._

_She pondered sorrowfully, still waiting, and waiting. She heard a puttering and another moving truck appeared, parking outside her house. She was ushered away again, so she sat on the swing on her veranda, and watched the men load the remaining few things. Her dad was bustling around, checking he had his keys, plane tickets, wallet and such, and her mother gathered the last items. The suitcases were wheeled in, another car pulling up: a colleague of her dad's that would drive them to the airport._

_The old clock in the living room that they were leaving behind chimed nine o'clock, and Santana's sinking heart plummeted. She stood on the sidewalk outside her house, craning her neck to see if there was anyone coming. There were people, but she couldn't see any Brittany. The puttering of the truck started up again and it pulled away, carrying their last belongings off to a new home far away. Finally her dad stopped chatting with his coworker, and called to her._

_"Santana, come on. We're leaving."_

_Sadly, she turned away from the sidewalk and trudged towards the waiting car, ever so slowly, still a sliver of hope in her heart. She got in like a snail to the impatient stare of her father, and the understanding nod of her mother._

_"Mom?"_

_Her mother turned to look at her. "I know, sweetie."_

_"She was supposed to come…"_

_She turned her face to the window, and gazed out, as the trees began moving, and her house got further and further away. She gazed and gazed even when they were well off their street. Even as the plane took off, she stared out over the landscape._

_But Brittany never came._


	2. Chapter 2

This is weird, I know. But the thing about not having any kind of plan for your story is that you will sometimes mess the fuck up. So...yeah, I'm re-writing this, :P SORRRYYYY people. My apologies.

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><p>Santana closed the notebook and sighed frustratedly, tossing the pen aside. Her hand was aching from writing so much, but she couldn't help it, once the words were out, they just flowed onto the page. She could still smell the fresh grass and feel the sand between her toes and Brittany's scent, which she totally took for granted, it was as if she were eight years old again. Santana certainly didn't want to think about it, yet her head was buzzing with memories. For months afterwards, she'd hoped for the blonde's call, Brittany had promised to call her. Brittany had promised she'd write. Brittany had promised they'd be friends forever.<p>

Then again, she also promised she'd come that morning. Santana cringed, whatever happened to being over it? A lot has changed since then. This story had a happy ending. She was no longer the innocent little girl who spent her time building sandcastles and counting all the beautiful things around her. No, at 17 years of age (turning 18 the following month), Santana Lopez was now one of Hollywood's biggest and most promising young creations. With an album that's just gone platinum worldwide (including 3 songs currently dominating charts in Europe, Asia and North America, plus another three in the Billboard top 10, but who's counting?) and an upcoming role in Steven Spielberg's latest flick, she was at the top of the world. Fans screamed, hooted and proposed to her everywhere she went. The paparazzi literally stakeout outside her penthouse apartment in Manhattan 24/7, as well as any hotel she happened to be staying at on tour. Her life was awesome, what teenager wouldn't want to have millions to spend on whatever they pleased? What teenager wouldn't love to have fans waiting in line for hours in whatever climate just to get a teeny tiny glimpse of their idol? What teenager wouldn't kill for an endless list of people begging to go on one date with her? You'd have to be nuts not to want those things, and Santana was no exception. What, were you expecting some cheesy crap about it "just being the music" for her? That she, in fact, didn't want the fame and fortune, the glitz and glamor? This humble narrator only has one thing to say to you: Are you on drugs? Please people.

Still, there was just one trivial detail in the girl's life that she wasn't quite happy with yet. She was not having her 18th birthday bash in some lousy club in New York just because it was 'one of the hottest clubs in the country'. Apparently a ton of other celebs had had parties there or whatever. Who cared? Santana was not a follower, she hadn't made it being a follower, she's a fucking trendsetter, and that's the way it's gonna stay. For the big one, people have promised her extravagant cars, modeling contracts, trips around the world, over the top stuff like that, hoping to win over her affections. She wasn't really interested though, she really did have everything she wanted already. So what if one Brittany Susan Pierce hadn't shown up and therefore may or may not have broken her heart into a gazillion little pieces that day. Honestly, the blonde did her a favor, had she been there to say goodbye, they would've kept contact, still be best friends, still be ridiculously co-dependent and things probably would've turned out differently by now. She never would've toughened herself up for this world. So, for that at least, she's thankful she never got to see those one-in-a-billion pair of blue eyes again.

A knock on the door snapped Santana out of her thoughts and a head poked inside. "Hey, I just spoke to the club in Vegas, and they said they'd love for you to have your party there."

Santana rolled her eyes, of course they did. Everyone wanted a piece of her, clubs and hotel bars all over the States (and she's pretty sure all over the world) would kill for a chance to have her party hosted there, it's all about who you know in this industry. The club owners are probably popping expensive champagne open right at that moment, practically drooling over what this could mean for their establishment. Whatever, she didn't care how much they'd get out of this, but they'd better make this a once-in-a-millennium event, because just as easy as Santana can get them maximum exposure and therefore millions in revenue, she could send them out of business with a snap of her fingers.

Thankfully, the club pulled it off, the place looked fucking awesome. Once you walked inside, you'd instantly get the feeling that this was a party you won't forget for a long, long time. That's for those lucky enough to get an invite, there were, of course, a few crazies wanting to crash, but the security took care of them well enough. Everything was going according to plan

Santana was having the time of her life. Dancing amidst the mass of bodies while feeling slightly tipsy was kind of awesome. Especially when all everyone there wanted was to dance with her and her alone (well, aside from her manager, agent, etc etc, because, ew). There's something about being desired by people whom you don't necessarily want back that just never gets boring. So she gave them a show, gyrating slowly to the thumping beat, mostly alone, but when some particularly attractive individual slides up to her, she'd let them grab onto her hips for a while, the extremely fortunate ones even got to inhale some of that intoxicating scent that's a mixture of expensive perfume, sweat and something that's uniquely Santana Lopez.

The massive, God knows how many layer cake is brought out at exactly midnight and it actually tasted pretty good (as it should), and she's grateful that they didn't do the weird thing where someone pops out of the cake (because that would be creepy, someone being INSIDE your food, waiting to pop out and surprise you). That would also be a big waste of the space where cake should be. What? She's not a model, she didn't have to starve herself, and besides, she's one of those people who could eat whatever and still be thin. That's right, be jealous.

Everyone clapped and congratulated her, most of it is probably fake, and the ones that are genuinely happy are because she's made enough money for them to last three lifetimes. She's not stupid, everyone's out for themselves, and all the friends she'd made while on top would dump her in a second if she ever stumbled.

It's around 3am in the morning when she found herself at the bar, downing a couple of shots. Not because she's drowning in self pity or whatever (because she's made it, so what's there to pity?) but because she's bored and this would probably be a rare occasion where she could. Most of the time she'd need to stay relatively sober to keep a clean image and avoid getting a killer hangover the following morning. She didn't mind it, because the one time she did get disgustingly shitfaced, Santana had somehow managed to blubber out everything she'd kept bottled up about Brittany to her manager. Like, _everything_. She cringed, just thinking back to that night. (And no, there will not be a cheesy flashback of said night, sorry).

Speaking of her manager, she still hadn't received her present from the woman yet. Everyone else was more than eager to hand over their gifts. The Hilton even gave her her own private suite, which, yeah, was kinda cool.

Quinn (that's the manager's name, by the way) had promised her the best gift, _ever_. So that was gonna be interesting. Out of everyone she's ever met, the blonde and her just seemed to click the best. They had a good business relationship, Santana was one of Quinn's biggest clients, and in return, the blonde knew just how to keep her at the top. But more than that, they were...dare she say, friends? Like, they definitely didn't go round to each other's houses, tell horror stories and braid each other's hair, but they could talk once in a while about things that didn't have to do with her next big project (not to mention the above-mentioned night which Santana desperately wanted her to forget). But only once in a full moon.

"What's up?" Ahh, speak of the devil. No wait, she was the devil here. Quinn was more of the angelic type when it came down to non-business things (in a 'serious relationship' with Sam Evans aka trouty mouth von Bieberhausen. Ok, so only she called him that, but it was totally a fitting nickname).

Santana shrugged. "Not much, still waiting for my present from you. It's gonna be tough to beat that Mercedes, Q." It's meant to be a joke, but neither of them laughed.

"Right, come on then." The blonde started to make her way towards the VIP lounge, motioning for her to follow. They probably needed privacy for this (not THAT- you all are perverts).

She nodded and stood up, making sure to bring her vodka tonic along, alcohol seemed to make everything better.

Once inside, Quinn wordlessly pulls out an envelope from her back jeans pocket (oohh, had she been keeping it there the whole time just to create this dramatic moment of revelation?) and slid it over the glass table to Santana, who just cocked an eyebrow.

The blonde shrugged, no, it's not a check.

She ripped the white envelope open (because who could be bothered to open it "properly"?), only to see a single white piece of paper, with...wait for it, a series of numbers written on it. It's a phone number (wow, no kidding).

"What's this?" Santana questioned. She already had the numbers of everyone who's anyone in this business. Whose number could she possibly want-

Unless...her heart literally stopped for a second, no, it couldn't have been (ahh, but it was). How the fuck did Quinn get this number, assuming the number belonged to the person she thought it did? Wait, dumb question, she probably had eyes and ears all over the country, scouting for the next big thing and whatnot. Connections, connections, connections, if nothing else, Quinn had them. She could probably find out what freakin Waldo ate for breakfast that morning with one phonecall.

"It's Brittany's number," Quinn said casually, grinning, not knowing the can of worms she'd just opened in Santana's mind, "you always yap on about not having real friends in the biz, well here you go." Jesus Christ, she'd only said it once, twice _tops_, and she sure as hell didn't mean Brittany.

Santana just stared blankly at the piece of paper in front of her, a million questions in her mind. God, Brittany. _Brittany._ It shouldn't have been a big deal, she should've been quite happy to get back in touch with an old, dear friend. They used to be so close, after all. But if only it were so simple. You see, Santana was kinda, maybe, sorta in love with her ex-best friend (bet you didn't see THAT one coming, huh?). Yup, it's the age old, cliched tale of falling for your best friend (before you had even known what love was). At that moment in time, however, she hadn't realized it yet, so the sudden increase in heartbeat confused her a little. Or, y'know, a lot.

"Well?" Quinn snapped her fingers in front of Santana, who'd unknowingly gotten lost in thought for a second. "Give her a call, I wanna meet this girl. Must've been something else, huh? Miss 'I think she was like, my soulmate or something'." (oh God, did Santana really say that?)

"It's been 10 years, how do I know she'd even remember me?" The thought disheartened her majorly. Maybe it was true though, maybe the reason Brittany hadn't shown up that day was because she'd gotten sick of her or something. It hurt, the possibility of Santana feeling so much for the blonde, _still,_ and it not being mutual. She wasn't used to not being loved and adored, especially by the one person she loved the most.

"You're kidding, right? Your face is on thousands of billboards, your songs played on the radio every 5 minutes. How could anyone NOT remember you?" True, ever since she'd hit the big time, everyone and anyone from her past had shown up, even the people whom she'd never spoken to in high school.

A sudden buzzing sensation in Santana's pants interrupted the conversation. It was a text from Blaine, wanting to meet up for coffee (even though it was 3am, but let's just ignore that, shall we?). Ahhh, Blaine Anderson, her boyfriend (shall we stop for a few moments to let you pick your jaws up off the floor?). Well, to everyone but a few people, he was her boyfriend anyway. Their two managers had one day come together and decided that they were gonna fake date (later on, she found out that Blaine's manager had more or less begged Quinn and her to help him, why? Well let's just say that Blaine's gay, dating Broadway producer Kurt Hummel in secret and wanted her as a beard…actually that pretty much summed up the situation.) Santana had agreed, much to Quinn's dismay. It wasn't that Blaine wouldn't have made a good fake boyfriend (good looking, charming personality and a clean image), it's just that if people did find out, the whole thing would blow up into a huge mess. Not to mention when he does come out…awwkkwarddd. Quinn still thought that Santana wanted Blaine to owe her a favor, but secretly, she had a secret of her own. The girl was gay. There was not a single doubt in her mind that she was a lesbian. She'd accepted it, but coming to terms with it was one thing, and telling people was a whole different thing. No, she was not gonna cut her hair short and take up golfing or whatever lesbians did. That shit was not for her. So, no one knew. Not Quinn, not her parents, not even Blaine (but honestly, who was he kidding? Think Ricky Martin, but ten times more obvious).

God, fake dating was exhausting. All the photo op's and the superficial smiles for the cameras and his asking her if 'this was alright' every 5 minutes would've been fun had it not gotten so annoying. Maybe she really did need a friend to talk to. Someone who wouldn't care about her sexuality. She sighed, looking down at the now creased piece of paper (she'd been subconsciously folding and unfolding it for the past few minutes).

That night (or rather, early morning), as Santana got inside her stretch limo, the small piece of paper burned a hole inside her pocket.


	3. Chapter 3

I feel kinda bad for making you re-read this, but stick with this till the end of this chapter at least, pleeasseeee. Next chapter is either gonna be hella fun or extremely torturous to write.

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><p>Over the next few days, people around Santana Lopez began to notice certain…behavioral changes in the girl. A few thought that she may have been having a bad week, others thought she were on her period (hah! If she actually were, she'd fire them without so much as a second thought). Basically, she became bitchier than usual (which, amazingly, was possible) and sometimes would just kind of space out for a few moments. Weird, considering that when she's recording, she's recording whole-heartedly, she's said once in an interview that music was one of the greatest passions in her life, and she probably couldn't live without it. That answer hadn't been written for her, she hadn't practiced it in front of her publicist beforehand, it was the truth. Santana loved the constant attention, the fans, the money, everything, she really really did, but at the end of the day, she does have God-given talent. She's not just another pretty face with a great body lip-syncing to autotune, she's the real deal.<p>

That's why eyebrows started to raise when the recording sounded pitchy and hollow. If it were one day in the studio, no one would've even bothered to care. Artists all have their off days, nobody's perfect, but they would all come back the following day, determined to get it right on the first go, and most of the time, they'd do exactly that. Unfortunately for Santana, this off day turned into an off week, and after the 7 longest days of her life, Quinn and Noah Puckerman (her producer) felt the need to have a little sit down with her. She had shrugged and agreed to 'a friendly chat' with the two at a fancy bar where the staff would keep their mouths shut and the paparazzi at bay. To be honest, she'd been kind of...submissive (well, not _submissive_, but definitely easier to work with). Another thing that was different about her. Before her 18th birthday party, she'd been feisty, even a little defiant at times (which basically means that she'd throw tantrums and act like a spoiled brat if she didn't get her way), just because she knew she could, because she knew that any other label would love to have her.

The hotel bar was still very much the way it had been the last time she'd visited. This was a place where mainly wealthy, powerful businessmen came to have a cigar or a glass of whisky away from work. Or, more likely, meet up with escorts. The bartender and staff in general knew Santana and treated her well (duh, they knew who she was, after all. More importantly, however, they knew very well just how _easy_ it'd be for her to make them become unemployed). The drinks were made especially for her, and she's pretty sure management has a bartender reserved just for her visits, since every time she's been here, she'd been served by the same cute guy. Tall, atheletic build and a face that looked as though it belonged in a catalogue for Abercrombie and Fitch, not exactly her type (and who'd hook up with the barkeep anyway?) but the dude made some delicious cocktails, so he'd do.

The trio were immediately lead to the secluded VIP area, and after ordering drinks, got straight down to business.

"Santana," Puck started, somewhat nervously. He did know her reputation after all, and nobody would want to create a scene in a public place like this. The staff may be incredibly well trained in keeping their mouths shut, but who could be able to resist leaking a scandal? One wrong move, Santana leaves for another label, and he'd be dead meat, (Puck was good at what he did, a definite up and coming producer, but he wasn't THAT good) "you seemed kinda…off the past few days. Are you okay at all or…"

Quinn rolled her eyes, sometimes you just had to treat teenagers for what they were. Teenagers. "Your recordings this week have sucked. Wanna tell me why?"

Santana shrugged, she just couldn't stop thinking about all the possibilities of meeting with Brittany again. She wanted to snap at Quinn and tell her that this was actually all her fault. If she hadn't been given that fateful note with those particular numbers on it, she'd still be fine, living the high life like she'd always wanted.

Sensing something was on the girl's mind, Quinn promptly turned to Puck and said in that sweet but firm tone of hers, "Could you give us a minute?"

The young producer looked as if he'd just found out he passed 12th grade math, eager to escape the weird tension in the room. If there was one thing he knew for sure about women, it's that you do not mess with their shit.

Once Puck left, Quinn turned back to Santana, "Is it…is it Blaine?" She asked, concern etched over her face, and Santana almost laughed at that, because it's so incredibly far off the mark. Usually, the blonde woman could read her pretty well, but not this time, clearly.

"No, Quinn, it's not Blaine. He's fine." She assured her manager.

"Well then what's up?" Oh God, she must've been really good at hiding it, because there's actual, genuine curiosity in Quinn's voice.

"Nothing...I'm just...having a bad week, I guess." A lie. An obvious lie that anyone would've been able to pick up.

Quinn's eyes hardened, "Grammy nominations are next week, Santana. Now's not a good time for drama. You either tell me and we can fix this together before the press even get a scent of this, OR you can lie to my face, and when the tabloids bury you alive, you can regret not trusting me for the rest of your miserable life, and when people look at you a few years from now, they'd see you as nothing more than has been. Your choice."

Santana's eyes went wide with surprise, she'd never been spoken to like, well, like _that_ before. Always been pampered and treated like royalty. The thought of her being a washed up Hollywood D-lister sometime in the near future had never once crossed her mind. But it was true though, once you're on top of the world, there was no other way but down. No. She had worked too fucking hard to ever let herself fall. Santana may only be 18 years of age, a spoiled brat, a bitch to almost everyone she worked with, but she was tough as nails.

"It's Brittany."

It was Quinn's turn to almost laugh, clearly not anticipating that, "what's up? Have you called her yet? I mean, she still remembers you, right?"

Santana shook her head, "No, I haven't called her yet, I dunno if I should. What if-"

"You're kidding me. God, it's just a number, I thought you'd jump at the chance to talk to her –"Quinn reached inside her pocket and fished out her mobile phone – "look, just call her ok? And if she rejects you, I'll be here to hold your hand." It's said in a mocking tone, and Santana honestly couldn't believe it. Either Quinn was half blind or she was an expert at keeping a poker face.

When she finally finishes dialing the digits (she intentionally draws the simple process out, the last few moments before the rest of her whole world would change. She could feel it in her gut, after this, things would be different. Very different), it's the longest seconds of her life.

When the other end picked up, her heart stopped, and with one single word, it began beating again.

"Hello?" Came the voice from the other end.

"H-hi, um, Brittany?" If it weren't for Quinn's amused stare, Santana probably would've hung up right then and there. Damn, she was nervous. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest.

"Yeah, who is this?"

"This is…um, this is…" Santana was fumbling over her words like nobody's business, she had the words on the tip of her tongue, but they just refused to come out like she wanted them to. This was the same girl who regularly performed in front of millions and appeared on posters, billboards, magazine covers, she signed hundreds of autographs and took God knows how many pictures with her fans everyday, all with complete grace and confidence. Yep, same girl.

Quinn rolled her eyes and decided to take matters into her own hands, snatching the mobile device away and spoke in a clear and firm tone, "Hi, this is Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez' manager. She wants to meet with you tomorrow. Is that okay?"

Santana was practically fuming, Quinn had zero right to interrupt a perfectly private conversation of hers. That was completely unprofessional and frankly, not very nice. As Santana was about to snatch the phone back (and possibly demote Quinn, into what? No idea, but she was definitely gonna do _something), _the blonde's expression turned into an accomplished smile as she nodded. "Yes, tomorrow, at around 8?" Quinn gave Brittany the address of the bar Santana usually went to, and then quickly added, "she says she misses you a lot."

That was it. She was gonna make sure Quinn's death looked like an accident and nobody would ever find her corpse. But at least Santana would have mercy and let the blonde finish the phonecall, which, no, Santana was definitely NOT straining her ears to try and hear what was being said on the other side.

"Great, see you then." With that, Quinn flipped her phone shut and slipped it back into her pocket. "You," she said, pointing at Santana, a satisfied smirk on her face, "are welcome."

"Whatever, I could fire you for invading my privacy." She deadpanned.

Quinn placed a hand over her heart, mocking fear, mouthing 'oohh, I'm scared' (or something similarly sounding and no doubt equally annoying) as she strolled out of the room, leaving a slightly gobsmacked Santana behind. That little bit-

* * *

><p>Santana twirled the straw around her drink, needing something to get her mind off of the girl. Brittany was 1 minute and 25 seconds late, and counting. Damnit, no, ok, from now she wasn't gonna think about Brit- Nope. Will not even think her name, when she comes, Santana needed to be cool and not look like a nervous wreck. Not look like she'd been anxiously awaiting yet at the same time utterly dreading that moment. Not look like she'd dialed up her personal stylist and did the once deemed impossible task of getting him <em>sick<em> of picking out clothes. Nope, cool, calm and collected all the way. No biggie, right? She was an international superstar, meeting up with an old friend should be no problem, if anything, Brittany should be the one with butterflies in her stomach. Shit. That's what the fluttering was, wasn't it?

"Miss Lopez...miss Lopez!" The bartender's voice almost made her jump in surprise, "are you okay?" She followed his gaze down to her glass, her straw looked like it'd been to hell and back.

"I'm fine," She snapped.

Ok, so maybe Santana was a liiitttleee bit nervous.

"Santana?" A hand suddenly touched her shoulder. She turned around, anger boiling on her tongue. That's when the world stopped. Or maybe just her heart. "Hey," she said softly.

"Hey," Santana barely managed to breathe out. Her mind having gone completely blank. Brittany was very much the same, yet so thoroughly different. She still had the bluest pair of eyes, the same pair that was etched into Santana's mind ever since the first day they met. Her (still) blonde hair had grown out, tied into a messy ponytail that suggested she had been in a hurry. She still had that guileless, carefree smile from ten years ago, when they'd spend all their days- No. Santana did not want to delve into the past. That was all ancient history.

For a few moments, the two girls just stayed where they were. Neither wanted to move, afraid that they'd break this weird...spell thing that they were both under. They just took each other in with their eyes.

"Columbia?" Wow. "As in Columbia University?" The sweatshirt the blonde girl had on had the letters printed on them. Was this the same girl she'd known 10 years ago?

Brittany nodded with a smile, "I'm a freshman."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks."

It's awkward. There's this barrier between them now, this unspoken, invisible barrier. The fact that the girl who'd had trouble distinguishing her rights from lefts was now attending one of the best universities in the world and the girl who was afraid to sing even in front of her family was now a global phenomenon just reminded them both of how much things have changed. They were practically strangers now. Santana couldn't help but think that this had pretty much been Brittany's fault. Who'd have thunk it? That ten years later, they'd be here. Had someone told Santana that this was going to happen, she'd probably have laughed in their face, because a) alcohol was disgusting (their parents gave them both a sip of wine once and they'd instantly hated the pungent taste of it) and b) they would've never separated in the first place. Best friends forever. They'd pinky promised.

"Well, sit down." Santana motioned to the stool next to her own.

Brittany complied and gave the bartender her order. Lemonade.

Santana chuckled, "Don't worry, we can drink here. Have whatever you want, it's my treat."

"You hated alcohol," The blonde said quietly.

"Yeah, well, that was ten years ago, Brittany." Santana was trying her hardest to sound cold and apathetic, but she still hated the fact that they could no longer use their nicknames. Granted, the nicknames were just shortened version of their first names. But still, it was one of the things only they did together.

"I'm sorry for not showing up that day, my dad-"

Santana waved her away, "No, I'm sure you had your reasons. It's fine, it's ten years ago." God, WHAT THE FUCK WAS SHE SAYING? It certainly was NOT fine. Truth was, she didn't want to hear it, she didn't want to hear some excuse as to why Brittany had more or less abandoned her for whatever thing she was going to say about her dad. OK, that was harsh, but that was what it felt like.

"I've missed you everyday since."

Santana had to bite down a 'what? You never thought to pick up the damn phone and give me a call?'. After all, she no longer cared about the past, right?

Almost as if Brittany read her mind (guess some things never change), she continued, "I figured you wouldn't want to talk to me."

Santana stood up abruptly, looked at the non-existent watch on her wrist and said, "Look, I gotta go. I'm sorry." She couldn't stand it anymore, she thought she could handle seeing Brittany again, but something in her mind just clicked, and she felt as if all the breath was sucked out of her lungs.

Brittany's eyes widened, almost with panic. "What? Where? Please don't go." She reached out and grabbed the other girl's arm. When both their eyes shot down to the contact, she immediately let go.

Santana looked down at the spot where Brittany just touched her. It burned.

The two girls stood there, frozen, feet rooted to the ground. They couldn't move, or rather, they couldn't will themselves to move.

That's when Brittany moved forward. She leaned in and- (give yourselves a few moments to calm down, dear readers) - touched her lips to Santana's.

It's so perfect Santana could've _cried_. She's kissed a few very VERY lucky girls before (duh, she had to make sure she was a lesbian, and what better way to have done that than to make out with random chicks?) but none of them could even _begin_ to compare to Brittany.

Readers, have you ever...I don't know, ever had the pleasure of kissing someone, and fireworks go off in your mind. Everything else just fades away, it felt like the two of you were the only people left on this Earth and you knew. You just _knew_ that this was the very person you were meant to kiss for the rest of your lives?

Well, the kiss these two shared was exactly like that. Except. Not really.

To anyone else looking in, the height difference was...weird. And around them, a few people choked on their drinks, even the bartender was kinda staring.

But enough of this narrator ruining the moment. The two kissed as if they'd been lovers forever. Their hearts pounding in their ears as they savored the moment. Every part of Santana's brain was screaming at her desperately to stop, stop before things got out of hand. Stop before someone caught them. Stop before she fell in love (with just one kiss? Damn, Brittany's an excellent kisser).

* * *

><p>Somewhere outside the hotel bar, a photographer was salivating over his potential big break. No, no, not potential. No magazine or tabloid would turn him down now, no one would be able to turn <em>this <em>down. It was almost too good to be true. He almost thought was dreaming, but no, the bright flashing of his digital camera told him that he, most certainly, was not dreaming.


End file.
